


Wait for the ricochet

by ElisAttack



Category: Push (2009), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Clairvoyance, M/M, Mind Control, Psychic Abilities, Push AU, Science Fiction, Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7948840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek was never born to lead.  </p>
<p>He was supposed to be Laura's right hand man, he was supposed to protect her with his abilities.  Except his abilities couldn't stop a bullet killing his sister from a sniper too far away for his Push to reach.  Just as years before, it couldn't stop an arsonist from burning down Laura's and his home with everyone they loved inside.  Derek can control minds, he can erase, create, and rearrange memories and emotions to suit his needs, but the Argents never fail to make him feel like the most powerless man alive.</p>
<p>Or the one where Lydia approaches Derek, asking for help in order to rescue Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait for the ricochet

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the 2009 film Push, which follows a group of superhuman people with psychic abilities, hunted by a shady government agency. You don't have to have watched the film to get this, but here's a list a terms that might be helpful.
> 
> Pushers: People who can reach into other's heads and rearrange their memories.
> 
> Bleeders: People who emit high-pitched sonic screams that can rupture a target's blood vessels.
> 
> Watchers: People with the power of clairvoyance.
> 
> Movers: People with telekinesis.
> 
> Shadows: People who can block other clairvoyants' visions.

Derek tosses the die in the air, and doesn't bother catching it on the way down.  He's been eyeing the man in the pinstripe suit all evening, and finally has an opening to approach him.  The die bounces on the casino's garish carpet as he leaves his seat behind, rolling to a stop just as a woman in a slinky dress quickly takes his place at the slots, eager to spend her money.

Derek strides forward, confidence and a slight swagger in his step.  He slides up to Pinstripe where he sits at the bar, nursing a finger of whiskey.  Pinstripe looks up at him with confusion in his eyes, so Derek concentrates and  _ Pushes _ until the confusion gives away to recognition.

"Mike, is that you?"  Pinstripe asks, voice pleased as he gazes at Derek with wonder in his eyes.

"Yeah, it's me,"  Derek says.

Pinstripe spins in his stool, calling for the bartender.  "Get this man a glass of your finest red."  He points to Derek.  "This here is my baby brother, I haven't seen him in years."  He turns back to Derek.  "You always preferred a good burgundy."

"Good man."  Derek claps Pinstripe on the back.

"What are you doing in Reno, out of all places?  I haven't seen you since you graduated."

Derek shrugs, sipping the wine the bartender places in front of him.  "Oh, you know, keeping busy."

Pinstripe grins and punches Derek lightly on the shoulder.  "You sly dog, you.  I bet you've got yourself a pretty painted lady in your room right now."

"You caught me."  Derek raises his hands in mock surrender.  "But therein lies the problem, I'm trying to find an ATM."  He rolls his eyes.  "In this city, hookers don't take plastic."

"Don't you worry about that, Mikey old boy."  Pinstripe pulls his wallet from inside his jacket.  Counting out bills, he hands a square three hundred to Derek.  "There.  That should also cover a round in the morning, if you're feeling up to it."

"Thanks, bro."  Derek takes the money, and carefully folds it away into his sleeve.  He finishes his wine, savouring the final drop while Pinstripe looks on.  Derek peels a twenty away from the stack and places it under the empty wine glass.  Rotating his shoulders, he  _ Pushes _ , feeling his pupils expand as his irises are consumed by black.

Pinstripe's fond smiles fades, turning back to confusion, probably wondering why Derek is sitting in the stool right beside him when the whole bar is empty.  "Some space, buddy, please."  Pinstripe says.

Derek smiles apologetically, getting up from the stool.  "Sorry, I was just leaving."

"Can you believe the nerve of some people?"  He hears Pinstripe whisper to the bartender, just as Derek leaves the bar, a smile on his face, and three hundred dollars richer.

***

Derek whistles a jaunty tune as the elevator doors open, revealing an dust covered potted plant and an apartment hallway looking like it's seen better days.  He stakes out the opulent casinos and hotels for his marks, but knows not to waste his money rooming in them.  What's a little water damage compared to saving a buck or two?  Pushing takes a toll on him, and he can only pull off a good con a few times a week without feeling nauseous.  His uncle used to go through stacks of gravol, but then again Peter was always a greedy bastard.  It’s not good to think bad of the dead, but Derek can make one or two exceptions. 

His neighbour plays a Billy Joel record, scratched up and jumpy, but loud.  Derek can hear it through the thin walls when he finally opens his door.  He shuts it behind him and switches on the light, nearly jumping out of his skin at what he sees.

"I've been waiting for you,"  the woman sitting on his bed says.

Derek steps back, hitting the cheap door.  "What the fuck!"  He exclaims.  There’s no way Pinstripe had the time to send him an actual hooker before Derek erased his memories.  He narrows his eyes, concentrating.

The woman raises two fingers.  "Now, before you go rifling around in my brain, I think you should know two things.  One, I'm not here to hurt you."  She lowers a finger.  "And two, I am here to give you what you want most in the world."  She lowers the second finger. 

"Who are you?"

The woman flips a long mane of red hair over her shoulder, "My name is Lydia Martin."

"What are you doing here?"  He asks warily.

"I think I've already established that."

"Think again,"  Derek says, folding his arms over his chest, "You seem to be aware of my abilities, so you'll know, if I wanted to, I could rearrange all your memories to make you think the President is an alien intent on taking over the world, I can't imagine that would go over well for you."

Lydia smiles.  "He told me you would say that.  But you can relax,"  she says dismissively.

"Fuck that shit, lady."  Derek focuses and  _ Pushes _ , but before he can break into the woman's mind, she opens her mouth and screams.

Derek's head hits the door with force, dazing him, and her mind falls from his grasp.  He blinks star shaped white spots from his vision, ears still ringing, as he slides to the floor.  She had only screamed for a second, but it was a second far too long.

"Bleeder,"  Derek hisses, grasping at his ears in pain.  Bleeders and their sonic screaming,  _ fuck _ , he hates them.  Only Bleeders and Movers are quick and powerful enough to distract him from Pushing.  The Argents must have sent her to finally collect the last Hale.  As if they needed to—they broke his spirit a long time ago when they murdered every last person he ever loved.

She snorts.  "I told you, my name is Lydia, and I prefer to be called a Banshee.  Bleeder seems so crass."  She crouches in front of Derek.  "Need some help?"  She offers him her hand.

Derek pushes it away and glares as he climbs to his feet.  He moves into the room, past Lydia.  Reaching into his mini fridge, he grabs a cold bottle of water.  Derek cracks it open and chugs half of it down before placing it against his ear.  It doesn't seem help the faint residual ringing, but he can pretend it does.  He glares even harder.

"Sorry, about that."  She points to his ear, not really seeming sorry at all.  "But I couldn't have you turn me into an alien hunter, you understand."

Derek takes a seat on his bed, their positions reversed.  Taking a deep breath, preparing to face the music, he asks, "What does the Institute want from me?"

Lydia furrows her brow in confusion.  "Didn't you hear me the first time?  I'm here to give you what you want most in the world.  I imagine the Institute doesn’t fit into that."  She walks closer until she stands right in front of him.  "Tell me, Derek, what do you want most in the world?"

Derek snorts, tossing the bottle aside.  "You tell me."

Lydia smirks.  "You want the Institute to burn for what they did to your family."

The moment after Lydia speaks stretches for an age, until Derek asks suspiciously, "How do you know that?" 

"My best friend told me when we were both nine years old,"  she says easily—like it isn't an impossible thing—and reaches into her purse, producing a folded up sheet of purple craft paper.  

Derek takes the sheet, when she offers it to him with a smile, and opens it.  It has today's date at the top, and is covered in a child's chicken-scratch with bonus pencil doodles.  He's just barely able to read it, but even he can make out the stick figure with massively downturned eyebrows and folded arms.  A speech bubble is attached along with the exact words he said when he threatened Lydia.

"But this is impossible,"  he breathes, running his finger over the writing.  It's faded and looks years old, there's no way it could have been written within the last few days.  Every Watcher he's ever met couldn't See further than a few days into the future.  Seeing years ahead is impossible.   "Who did you say your friend is again?"

Lydia's surety crumbles at that and she takes a step back, running a hand through her hair, the very picture of a woman standing on her last leg.  She looks tired and scared and Derek can sympathise, it's exactly how he would feel if he was following vague instructions from a nine year old's visions.

"His name is Stiles, and the Institute's had him locked away for four years while they do god knows what to him.  And he's know it would happen to him since his was nine."  Her expression steels and she stand up straight.  "But he’s also known that  _ you _ would be the one to rescue him."

Derek shakes his head in disbelief.  "Why should I endanger myself to help you?”  He hands the drawing back.  “I don't see how helping your friend will hurt the Institute."

She takes the paper, running one long nail along the side distractedly.  "Stiles is the most powerful Watcher of our generation, the Institute uses his visions to plan their future moves.  Without him, they're running around blind like headless chickens, just like the rest of us."

Derek bites his lip, thinking about what Lydia is proposing.  On one hand, it's the perfect revenge.  The Institute took his family from him, so he'll take their most important pawn from them.  On the other, it presents a lot of risk.  The Institute has manpower and firearms to protect their assets.  It's a risk he'd usually be unwilling to take, except, they will be working with a Watcher—albeit one who was nine years old, whose visions are years old, and who is the one in need of rescuing.  

"So you're saying your friend had this all planned out?  That you have lots more of these?"  He points to the paper in Lydia’s hand.  "Detailing exactly what we're supposed to do, where he is, exactly how to save him?"

"Well..."  Lydia trails off and Derek's eyes narrow.

"Well, what?"

She taps a sharply manicured nail against her thigh.  "Stiles was easily distracted as a kid, even after the doctors prescribed him Adderall, sometimes he didn't finish writing down his visions."

Derek sighs, rubbing at his forehead where he feels the slight throb of a headache brewing.  "What did he miss?"

She purses her lips.  "He wrote down where he's being held, who I'm supposed to bring, what we're supposed to wear, and what to eat the night before.  You know, the important stuff."

"Yeah,"  Derek says sarcastically, "I truly see how important my culinary choices are when jail-breaking someone from the Institute."

"If they were written down, they are important.  We'll be having sushi—by the way—that's not up for negotiation,"  she says and Derek makes a face.  He doesn't care much for raw fish.

"What didn't he write down?"  Derek asks.

Lydia shrugs.  "Just what’s supposed to happen when we're inside, how we're getting out, who will die—if anyone—in the process, and if we'll actually succeed."

Derek collapses his face into his hands.  "Fucking Watchers,"  he whispers vehemently.

***

The pink linen suit Lydia picked up at a costume shop when they drove into Vegas—fit exactly to his measurements—hangs behind the bathroom door.  It's ghastly and it hurts his eyes to look at it, yet he still sits on the toilet seat, right opposite it.  

He's avoiding Lydia, Derek's man enough to admit it.  The woman is terrifying, and insists they remain true to Stiles' notes.  Notes which are currently scattered on one of the four beds in the hotel room.  Why they had to get a room with four beds, Derek doesn't know.  The moment they rescue Stiles, he isn't staying long enough to play sleepover.  He's going to head out to his cabin at Lake Tahoe to lay low for a few days.

Derek doesn't want to look at those notes again.  They’re creepy, and if he’s completely honest, scare the crap out of him.  Stiles was frighteningly detailed as a nine year old, and he doesn't need to know everything on those colourful sheets of paper to do a good job.  Lydia tells him what he has to do, and that's enough.

Derek was never born to lead.  That was going to be Laura's job when their mom finally retired.  He was supposed to be her right hand man, he was supposed to protect her with his abilities.  Except his abilities couldn't stop a bullet killing his sister from a sniper too far away for his Push to reach.  Just as years before, it couldn't stop an arsonist from burning down Laura's and his home with everyone they loved inside.  Derek can control minds, he can erase, create, and rearrange memories and emotions to suit his needs, but the Argents never fail to make him feel like the most powerless man alive.

Lydia, and by extension Stiles, can order him around for all he cares.  Derek can't afford to have another person's life on his shoulders again.

"Derek, the sushi's here!"  Lydia calls from the room.  Derek sighs, and climbs to his feet.

He walks over to the cart of food, and stares dejectedly down at it.  The blonde woman manning the cart, raises a brow at his expression. "Not a fan, I'm guessing?"

Derek sighs.  "Fate hates me."

The woman throws her head back and laughs wholeheartedly.  "Sometimes it can really feel like that.  Me, I like to live spontaneously, it keeps fate from catching up and giving me a good kick in the ass.  You should try it sometime, it's a ride." 

Derek smiles and looks down at her name-tag.  "Thanks, Selina."

"Yes, yes.  Selina Kyle, Catwoman."  Lydia waves her arm, nearly smacking Derek in the face.  "Nice moniker, by the way, it warmed you to him.  You're the only one who gets actual fingers in his drawings, the rest of us have Lego hands."

Derek gapes at Lydia before spinning around to Selina, only for a wave of pressure to hit his chest, throwing him back into the air.  He flies right across the room and hits the far wall with a loud crack.

"Calm down, Erica."  Lydia says, and Derek thinks it might be a bit too late for that.  Erica/Selina is a Mover, and he's guessing getting her here was the whole point of the sushi because the cart's overturned with salmon and rice scattered everywhere on the hotel carpet.  He's definitely not getting his deposit back.

"Who the fuck are you people?"  Erica hisses, marching further into the room, "Institute lackeys?  Like hell I'm going back there, over my dead body."

"Erica, we're not with the institute,"  Lydia reassures,  "We're trying to bring it down."

"Yeah right,"  Erica spits, she raises her hands getting ready to throw Lydia clear across the room.

"Stiles sent us."  Lydia says softly.  "We're the cavalry."

Erica's hands fall to her sides, a dumb-stuck look on her face.  "He said that to me,"  she says, her eyes wide.

"I know."

"I promised I would get him out, but he told me to leave him, said that the cavalry were coming for him later.  And then he fucking winked."

"That's us."  Lydia gestures between her and Derek.  "You, and."  She pulls a bubblegum pink sheet of craft paper from her pocket.  "Two men named Boyd and Isaac.  Anyone you know?"

Erica nods her head.  “My boyfriend, and our friend.”

So that's what the four beds are for.

***

It turns out that Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are on the run from the institute.  Isaac's a Watcher, not as powerful as Stiles, he can only see a few minutes into the future, but he'll be able to help fill in the unwritten pages from Stiles' vision.  Boyd's a powerful Shadow and has been hiding all three of them from the eyes and noses of the institute, avoiding their Watchers by making impulse decisions on where to hide away next—a dartboard and a continental map of the United States is apparently involved.

The three of them also knew Stiles in the Institute, and thanks to him, were able to escape from its clutches, remaining on the run for so long.

Erica sits on one of the beds as she tell them all of this.

"Everyone thinks Stiles is guiding the Institute on everything they do, but he's not.  He hasn't given them anything, no matter what they do to him, and they can't seem to replicate his abilities in other Watchers, Isaac is a perfect example of that."  She gestures to Isaac who sits with his arms around his legs and a blanket over his shoulders, as if that can protect him from the Institute.

"They injected me with so many serums, trying to boost my abilities."  Isaac shudders.  "I can't even imagine what they've been doing to Stiles."

"Those details weren't among these."  Lydia flips through Stiles' stack of colourful fortunes.  "Thankfully.  I can’t imagine how awful it would have been if Stiles knew what they were going to do to him."

Derek bites his lip, hating the sombre silence in the room.  Lydia can rescue Stiles, but it's another battle altogether if she can fix what the Institute did to his mind and body.  Derek sighs.  "What's the plan?"

Lydia nods, spreading out a few sheets on the bedspread, Derek leans closer.  She taps on a yellow paper, a drawing of a casino with an opulent water feature in front.  "We have the name of the hotel where they're keeping him overnight before they transport him to the east coast facility.  We have the room number, and that's all.  We're flying blind here, I don't even know how many people will be guarding him."

"A lot,"  Erica says, "Stiles is their money maker, he's how they threaten people who don't know they can't tap into his abilities.”  She looks at Derek out of the corner of her eye.  “Can’t Push him.”  Derek raises his brows in surprise, he’s never met a person he couldn’t Push.  “Even the idea that the Institute has such a powerful Watcher makes them powerful."

"So if we steal Stiles away, we make them look weak,"  Derek concludes.

Lydia points a finger at him.  "Exactly."

***

Derek scratches at his leg.  The linen pulls on his leg hair making him feel like ants are crawling up his legs.  It’s unpleasant to say the least, and he wishes he could have worn something less linen.  But alas, a piece of construction paper, years old, says he has to wear this, so here he is.

Lydia holds onto his arm, donning a long evening dress with a slit up the side.  The hotel is having a ballroom dancing competition, and the clothes they're wearing fit in better than the all black he would have suggested.  Once again, Stiles is one step ahead of them.

They wait for the elevator, Derek's eyes flying everywhere as he keeps his eyes out for anyone who looks out of place.  People who might need a small Push to forget they saw the three of them going places they have no business being.  Boyd and Isaac wait in the garage, preparing for a speedy getaway.  Erica, well...

"This wig itches,"  she whispers from behind them as they walk into the newly arrived elevator.  Derek presses the button for the sixteenth floor.

"That's because it's big and curly and hides your face.  If you hadn't noticed, you're on the Institute's most wanted list,"  Derek whispers back.

"Thank you, but I most definitely noticed, considering I've been on the run for the past year."

"Quiet, you two,"  Lydia hisses lowly just as the elevator opens to reveal a man in a golf shirt with very obvious black sunglasses on.  Only two type of men wear sunglasses indoor, and since this one doesn't have a cardigan tied around his neck and boat shoes on, he's assuming this is the one they’ve been trying to avoid.

"This floor is restricted to anyone without a room—Jeremy!  How ya doing, buddy?"

"Good."  Derek smiles, eyes fading back to normal.  "Kind of hungry though."

The man reaches out and pats him on the shoulder, "Don't you worry about that, there's a great pizza place down the street, I know how much you love a good neapolitan."  The man walks past them into the elevator.  "Wait here, I'll only be a few."

Once he leaves, Lydia and Erica turn to him.  "You couldn't just make him forget we were here?"  Lydia asks.

Derek shrugs, "That's harder.  It's easier to make him believe he wanted to leave.  People are stubborn creatures, once they get something in their heads, it's difficult to change their minds."

Derek finds that instead of constantly rifling around in a person's head, it's easier to make someone believe that what they're doing is for someone they care about.  Derek just has to make a suggestion, and his marks' minds do the rest—making him into a best friend, a family member,  or even someone they admire.  Derek just plays along with whatever their mind comes up with.

Lydia points them to the door they need to access.  Erica shifts her fingers, and Derek hears the tumblers click.  He pushes open the door to find a couple wrapped around each other in bed.  Derek's grateful they still have their clothes on.  He sends a suggestion their way and the woman looks up, sending him a lascivious wink while the man kisses down her neck, making eyes at Derek.

Erica nudges past him.  “A threesome, really?”  Derek shrugs and she slides open the door to the small balcony.  Peeling off her wig, she lets it fly off into the sunset.

Lydia looks on disapprovingly.  "That's littering."

"Who’re you going to tell, the littering police?"

"Come on,"  Derek urges, "We don't know if they See us, there could be an army waiting for us in the room below."

Erica snorts.  “Boyd is good at what he does.  He kept us hidden from the Institute for a year, shadowing us for a few minutes is nothing.”

"Even so, if there isn't one now, there soon will be,"  Lydia says, "Go tell that nice couple inside that they forgot condoms or something."  She reaches into her bag and pulls out two pairs of heavy duty earmuffs.  "And go stand somewhere far away from any glass.  This is going to get loud."

Derek Pushes the couple and they leave, scrambling, the door clicking shut.  Erica points to a coat closet, and Derek figures that's better than the bathroom with the vanity mirror and glass shower stall.  He just finishes putting on the muffs when he feels Lydia screaming.

The sound hits him like a wave and it jostles him into Erica in the small space of the cupboard.  The muffs help, somewhat.  They don't stop his ears from popping or a few blood vessels in his eyes from exploding, but they're better than nothing.

They emerge to find a hotel room covered in  shards of glass from the door, and Lydia looking over the balcony, looking towards the floor below.  She only just manages to dodge back as a bullet flies by.

"Damn,"  she swears,  "They recovered faster than I thought they would."  He knows she didn't scream as powerfully as she could have, not wanting to hurt Stiles.

"It's fine,"  Erica says, "That's what I'm for."  She shifts her hands and suddenly she's moving, lifting herself off the balcony into the open air.  Bullets fire at her, but with a wave of her hand, she moves them, ricocheting off with a sharp sound.  They quickly lose sight of her and Derek swears as he hears shouting and the loud crashes of things being flung around.

If Derek was a braver man he’d climb over the balcony side, but they’re high enough that a fall will kill him, so he waits, Lydia wide eyed and frightened clutching at his arm.  Eventually, he hears Erica swear colourfully, just as she reappears over the side, a shaking figure clutched tight in her arms.

Lydia rips herself away from Derek, rushing forward to the figure.  “Stiles!”

Derek grabs at her before she can makes it.  “Come on, we’ve got to go!”  Derek spares one glance at the man they just rescued—noting his pale skin and bony limbs, like he’s been living in a dark, dead hole for the past four years—Derek wonders just what he’s been through.  But before he can look closer they’re running out of the room, to the stairwell.  Taking the elevator is too risky, considering the power could be cut at any moment, they’d be sitting ducks.

They’re running down the stairs, taking two at a time, Stiles wriggling in Erica’s arms, clearly in pain.  Derek wonders if he was shot.  

Erica huffs when she catching him looking, her voice out of breath, “One of the guards injected him with something before I took him out.”

“It’s a suppressor.”  It’s the first time Derek’s ever heard Stiles speak, and he sounds like he’s in agony.  “I can’t See a goddamned thing.”

Guards round the corner, clearly surprised to see them, but before any can raise their guns, Erica drops Stiles on his ass, and sweeps her hand, knocking the guards down the stairs into a pile at the bottom.

Derek kneels down to check on Stiles.  He reaches forward, but is swatted away.  “I’m fine,”  Stiles hisses, irritated.  Erica pushes Derek aside to pick Stiles up again who goes without protest, a thousand yard stare in his eyes.  His legs are thin as sticks, skin translucent and pale as Erica cradles him to her chest.  They are clearly atrophied and useless.  Derek looks away, knowing that Stiles must feel so weak—his body uncooperative, his Sight lost to him.

Derek doesn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t Push anymore.  He imagines he’d have the same dead look in his eye.

They make it down to the garage without further incident, Boyd peeling out and crashing through the garage’s barrier arm, not bothering to wait until it rises.

They drive along the boulevard, Lydia’s arm is tucked around Stiles’ shoulder, her head resting on top of his, relief evident in her posture.  Stiles meets his eye for one long second before he looks away again.  He turns from Derek, to stare out the window, watching the cars fly by.  It reminds Derek of how he was after Laura was killed.  So tired and empty on the inside.

It took such a long time for him to heal.  

Sometimes, late at night, when he’s watching something funny on the tv, he turns, expecting to see Laura laughing beside him, only to see an empty couch.  The wounds are still there, they won’t ever go away, but he knows how to function, even with them.  His little cabin at Lake Tahoe—the beauty of the landscape, the freedom away from people—helped to heal him.  Derek wonders if it could do the same for Stiles.  

He leans to the front, and whispers directions in Boyd’s ear.  

As Boyd turns the car around and drives south, pulling onto the 580 to Lake Tahoe, Derek looks at Stiles out of the corner of his eye.  Studying Stiles’ profile, the shadows under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks, Derek swears he will keep this man safe, if it’s the last thing he does.

  
  
  



End file.
